Page 95 of XO Karma

“Your associate?” My head tilts to the side. “What the hell does that even mean? Sounds very John Wick.”

“Let’s just say it’s someone who wants to rid the world of toxicity as much as I do.”

My curiosity is piqued. “Do they pay you?”

“Would it matter if they did?”

“I mean…” Murder for hire is a bit different than murder for fun. “It might.”

His brows pull together. “Why?”

“Because that would make you a contract killer, not a serial killer.”

“What can I say?” He huffs a laugh. “I’m a man with range.”

“Aren’t you ever concerned about taking hits that someone else gives you?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I’ve been working with them for years. They want the same thing as me.”

“And what’s that?”

“To rid this world of all the people that are destroying it.”

“Heavy burden to bear,” I say, chest squeezing, and his eyes meet mine.

“No heavier than yours.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your job is literally to balance the cosmic forces of the world.”

My eyes fall to the ground. “A lot of good I’m doing, poisoning douche bags with laxatives and knocking out the occasional asshole.”

“It’s all important,” Aster assures me, tipping my chin until my gaze meets his. “As much as the world needs to be rid of horrible people, normal people also need to feel satisfaction that their problems matter. That karma is being given to those who wronged them. It’s not our place to make someone feel like their problems are inferior.” He drags a hand through my hair. “You give people hope that the world isn’t just out to get them.”

“That there’s a balance,” I add, allowing his words to sink in and wrap around me like a warm hug.

“Exactly.” Aster nods, pleased, then returns to the board. “So how are we going to balance this one, Karma baby?”

Following his line of sight, my eyes bounce around the various photos. “I guess the first step is narrowing the suspect pool?” Aster walks over and flips the board. On the back of it is a map of Cleosville, with the photos the Kodak Killer shared of every victim. My eyes wander the map, immediately landing on where 23rd and 42nd Street connect. Where the photo of Violet was taken.

I’ve seen it so many times, but my stomach still churns at the sight of my best friend, eyes vacant of life. I wonder what she was thinking in her last moments. Was she scared? Did it hurt? Of course it hurt. The amount of blood surrounding her, that couldn’t have felt good.

My fingers run over the photo. “I miss her,” I whisper.

Aster follows my line of sight. “Do you have a picture of Violet on your phone?”

His question catches me off guard. “Yes, of course.” He takes the device, and a few minutes later, there’s a photo printed of her smiling and full of life. It makes my chest squeeze. She should still be like that. Not six feet under, God knows where, no one even able to visit her grave. Doesn’t feel the same visiting a tombstone that doesn’t have a body beneath it. Our home feels more like a memorial than that gravesite ever has.

He sticks the new headshot over the one from Kodak, and I send him a grateful smile.

“All the photos were taken within this radius,” Aster says, grabbing a red marker and drawing a large circle on the map. “And before, I’d assumed the killer lived somewhere in this area.” He points to the center. To our neighborhood.

“Are you telling me this entire time I’ve been searching, they were that close?”

“Not necessarily.” He points to a green spot on the map far outside the circle, then draws a big X. “We know Karolyn Heinzel was killed at the Westerford mansion during the art auction.”

“Which makes the ideology that the murders happened in the city null and void,” I say, catching on. “So we still have no freaking clue.”